The Princess And The Pauper
by gschelt
Summary: AU: Aladdin's a girl. The princess runs away from the palace, and takes refuge for the night with the Street Rat who comes to her aid. Femslash, oneshot. It's not as bad as it sounds.


_**Author's Note:** So not only did I turn Aladdin into a girl, I threw some femslash in there. That's the point, after all. I got the idea from a friend of mine, we were brainstorming romance movies where it would be cute for the guy to be a girl... This was the best, I thought. Anyway, I know this is a really strange concept for a story. It's a weird concept, the title is horrible (I'm on a bad titles streak lately), but still I actually really like how it ended up. Please don't flame, I was just getting a really persistent idea out of my system. So let me know what you think. :)  
I own nothing._

* * *

She can't be much younger than you, but it's hard to tell. She looks years younger, but for all you know that's the androgyny that is throwing you off. The baggy, patched clothes, the skinny bare arms and shaggy black hair; it's all so boyish, she really does look like a boy of thirteen or fourteen. Gangly and youthful, you did think she was a boy at first, actually. When she'd shown up at that street vendor's, curiously confused at first and then getting involved to help you out, you thought, how terribly brazen (_thank Allah thank Allah thank Allah_) of this little boy to pluck up the nerve so quickly to come to your rescue. How valiant of the peasant. And when the boy began to speak, well, it was husky like adolescence but by now you recognize that it's a girl's voice. Of course.

And when you let him grab your hand and bring you along winding alleys of the dirty and maze-like city, you tripped along behind, barely holding your scarf on with your other hand, and wondered why you were following him. Sure, people like this would know their way around the gutters like the back of their dusty brown hands, and this was better than stumbling around by yourself, but a _kid_? Did you really trust your life to a _kid_? Still, beggars can't be choosers, and neither could a princess, and you listened to your pounding heart telling you to _run run run for your life_. You did, your hand sweaty in the tight grip of your rescuer.

He asked if you trust him, black-brown eyes dark with an intensity that made your heart leap to your throat. But that was the adrenaline, and with one thing leading to the next like that (you just wanted to look around the city, now look where you were), everything that happened was a blur. Every single moment caught you off guard. So you croaked _yes_, hesitating, and this strange person took your hand again and off you flew.

You soon realized that your rescuer was a girl. When you got to your destination, a rooftop nest that seemed to be his home, you fought to catch your breath while he let out a low whistle, running those hands through his hair and plucking at the sleeveless tunic sticking to his chest from sweat. And he… no, you realized, not a he. You finally had a chance to look properly, and she was definitely female. You thought… Yes, of course, a girl. You tried not to stare, fascinated, as she tried to tidy up. There wasn't much there to bother with, but it was the show of hospitality that mattered. And it was very odd, everything. This waifish and clever-looking person, her eccentric roost, the manner in which you got here. The sunset painting the dull orange bricks blood red. The silence.

But within a matter of minutes you sit, looking out at the stars, asking and telling as the slight breeze blows through. They're small questions, initially, hesitant stabs at conversation. You're not sure if she trusts you, you're not sure if you trust her. No, that isn't it. It's still that you're caught off guard, still wound up from what happened in the market. Of course you must trust her, you let her lead you over rooftops even though you've a terrible fear of heights. But you relax, and you try to figure your rescuer out.

You ask her name and she tells you it's Ali, shrugging like it isn't important. And you figure, she can't be much younger than you. Can't be more than nineteen, you decide, struggling hard to deduce it through her androgyny. It certainly makes things difficult. Even if there is anything physical to give her gender away, she's too skinny and her clothes are too loose. Her thick hair is too tangled, constantly falling over one eye. Her smile is too easy and too broad, her eyes too quick and sharp.

"So where are you from?" Ali asks, her curiously gravelly voice lilting under the moon as she looks off over the city, the bulbous towers of the palace sitting not far away. "What did you run away from?"

You roll your shoulders in a defeated, exasperated sort of shrug. The answer to Ali's question is in plain view, but you hate it right now. All your reasons for running flood back, but it's not the same. It's like they're muted, and you want to keep it that way. You want to keep your distance, and here on this rooftop you feel so surreal that you can do just that.

"I couldn't stay there anymore," you finally admit. "At home I could never breathe, it was all just like a dream." You've never said it out loud, never told anyone, but now is as good a time as any. Ali rolls her neck (several muffled cracks) and nods. She quietly surveys you, those unsettlingly pervasive brown eyes flickering up and down your body. She sees that you're clean, well-fed, you must come from a reasonably well-off family, one that can at least support you. And though she has every right to say something scornful, treat you with disdain for having problems so petty when she has problems like starvation, she doesn't.

"I can understand that." And as you sit there, a foot and a half or so of distance between you as you lean back against the smooth brick, you can hear her sigh. The sound blends with the endless whisper of twilight's wind.

"I can't go back," you say quietly, looking down at your hands as you turn them over in your lap. "I'm supposed to get married and… I can't. I just can't."

"Do you love him?" Ali's voice is sudden and soberly earnest next to you, and you're surprised by the quiet intensity of her words. You're surprised that she makes the connection to love instantly; your father, the suitors, _no one _had thought to think of love.

"Well, I…" you stammer. "It's actually no one man in particular. It's just an ultimatum I was given, my father was forcing me to marry."

Ali shrugs, toying with a slim knife in her hands and blowing a stray sheaf of black hair off her eyes. "That's not right," she grumbles, shaking her head. "I mean, I've never had to, never really thought about… But that's not fair to you." She takes an apple from the small pile next to her and begins to slice it.

No, of course this girl would never have thought of marriage as part of her future. You look at her and it's absurd. A home, a man, a couple of squirming children, a scarf-covered mouth and scalp. Of course not. She's just too… well, it's obvious. The fact that she's so far from what a wife would be, the way that she looks and talks. She would never have the same problems that you do with this.

"Thanks," you mumble, and you can't help but smile even though you're speaking to someone who truly _is_ a world apart from you. This girl, this strange person, you have nothing on _earth_ in common with her and yet… and yet she seems to understand you better than anyone back at that palace. And maybe you're just thanking her for getting you right, for being someone to talk to. Up here, sitting on this roof under the stars with this person, it's better than you could have imagined ending up when you ran away. You didn't know what you had in mind, but it wasn't this.

"What do you think of marriage?" you ask abruptly, curiously. Ali grins broadly and tosses an apple in the air, catching it underhanded with a quick twist of her wrist. If you didn't know any better, you would think she's showing off for you.

"I don't really know," she muses, chuckling modestly. "It's just never seemed like something that's part of my world, and I really don't think I could ever be with a man, either."

"What else is there?" you ask, smiling quizzically and quirking an eyebrow. You can't imagine being with anyone _but_ a man, and it's like… it's like, either a man or nothing at all. You're a woman, after all.

"I don't know," she says again, looking into the purple sky thoughtfully. "I guess I've never really thought of men in that way."

"You mean you don't ever think romantic thoughts?" you ask in disbelief. Maybe you were right, maybe Ali is more of a little boy than you thought. Maybe she doesn't even think about these things at all.

Ali just shrugs, looking down at the apple she's cutting into sections. You watch her for a moment, then she speaks again.

"Not in the marriage way like you and everyone else do, I guess," she says slowly, thoughtfully. "Maybe not at all, I don't know. I've only ever…"

Again, you sit and wait for her to go on (like you know she will), slightly absorbed. She shrugs once more and smiles shyly, fingering the keen edge of her blade.

"Well, I mean… a year or so ago there was this young woman who used to call me in from the street when I passed by, used to invite me in her home and give me bread and water. Then she would lead me to the next room and let me rest on her bed, her real bed with pillows, and…" Ali scratches the back of her head quizzically, searching for the right words. "She was very kind to me. But, I don't know. I guess that's not what you meant."

You look at her curiously. "A woman?" The idea is foreign, inconceivable even; that anyone but a man could be romantically attracted to a woman. Then again, this is Ali. She's probably never been looked at that way by a man, probably never looked at one herself. To someone who has never known the rules (but thinking of rules is like sand on your tongue, wrong and raw when applied to the concept of _love_)… when the slate is clean, who knows how things happen, how things look? Still, there's the chance that Ali misunderstood, though you're partly doubtful since she may be naive about some things but she's _definitely_ clever enough to understand something like this by instinct.

You cock your head to the side, thinking. "Well," you muse, "I think it counts as romance if you think about marriage."

Ali looks skyward. "She seated me in her husband's chair when I came. Sometimes she would tell me to pretend we were husband and wife." She shrugs yet again, averting her gaze down. "I'm not saying it was love or not love, like with you and your suitors. All I know is it's the closest I've got to knowing what it's like, probably."

"So… romantic thoughts," you state slowly, rather stupidly. Repeating it has no relevance, but your mind is working a bit sluggishly and you can't find any other words.

Ali just chuckles, handing you a triangular apple slice. "Do _you_ have them?"

The red skin is waxy against your teeth, but the crisp white flesh of the apple is sweet and sharp in your mouth. You chew, then smile. "I suppose," you admit innocently. "I've never really met anyone who I _really_… but just the same."

The sound of Ali's laugh on the rooftop is like that of thickly-hewn bells as her almond eyes crease behind the smiling crescents of her sharp cheekbones. "You sound so sure of it."

You flush slightly and smile wryly, pushing her knee away from you teasingly.

"No, no, I understand," she laughs, holding up a wiry hand in protest. "I think we can both understand true romance without the experience."

Still chuckling, you give Ali a searching look, trying to figure out your pleasant surprise at this strange girl's symmetry with you. "My father would never take that seriously," you admit ruefully, distracted by your own sudden and sweeping thoughts of home. It's like the nettling ache of thorns, looking a short way across the city upon the turrets of the only home you've ever known, where your father must be pacing, worrying. Or sleeping. You think of the servants, their fireplaces and beds of straw, that dowdy world you had never been quite curious enough to investigate; the living places of those who don't live as lushly as you do. You think of the coachmen and the stable boys, drowsing near the horses' hot breath. The guards, with their bloodshot eyes and vigilant abdomens as taut as a score of drums, while they stand resting against the cool stone. It's a still and warm night, and the clocklike precision of the palace carries on even as it grinds to a slow halt for slumber. Without you. You don't miss it – all you miss are the birds and your Raja – but still you twinge with strange and surreal sorrow.

You feel a smooth touch on the skin of your shoulder, and turn your head to see Ali's tentative hand there.

"You're sad," she observes softly, frowning.

"No," you deny, shaking your head obstinately, "I'm fine." The stubborn tears clouding your eyes are like gnats a horse tries to shake off; they come from nowhere, the tears, unwanted and humiliating. But Ali doesn't say anything about them, doesn't do anything stupidly gallant like cup your face and brush them away. She's no chivalrous prince, there to win you over; she's just some chivalrous waif, there by some strange turn of events to keep you safe.

"When I was young," she says abruptly, her hoarse voice low as she gazes away at the twisters of sand far, far away in the distant desert, "I used to run around the streets all day looking for trouble, or food, or whatever I could get. There were these packs of boys around my age, maybe older, who I would always tag along with. Stealing, chasing packs of dogs… Sometimes it was hard to tell the boys from the dogs. I would follow them around most of the day, but by the time the sunlight grew thin they would scatter. And it seemed that every time the sun began to set, it would catch me by surprise. Night would fall, and I wouldn't know what to do. The streets would become deserted. I remember I used to get scared, panicking in the darkness. After a couple years I took to the rooftops, found that I could live alright up here. But…" Ali pauses and turns to find your eyes. "Some nights I still got scared. Some nights I still cried. I was okay, and I am now, too, but… sometimes you get scared and you cry." She looks at me for a moment, intently, then looks at her lap.

You nod twice, feeling placated. You're oddly soothed by Ali's anecdote; and you hope she understands what it means to you. Saying it isn't necessary. Gratitude isn't necessary. Ali nods in return, then gets to her feet. She holds out her hand and says that it's time you'd both better sleep.

Lying in a rough canvas hammock nestled in the eaves of Ali's makeshift den, you stay still and listen to the sounds of chirping insects and warm breath. The darkness is black as pitch. Thirty minutes pass, maybe an hour or more, and though you can't seem to sleep your head is hazy with the thick, surreal gauze of nighttime. Ali's breathing is even, innocent, but you wonder that she can sleep. She may be wide awake, and you can just picture her arms behind her head as she lies on her back, staring up at the fabric you lie on just above her.

So you crawl down on the other side, down a ladder cramped in the corner, and drop nimbly to the floor. The stealth may be pointless, but the night is like baited breath. To disturb its fragility is as graceless as to slice it open.

You approach Ali's hammock, crouching over her still warm form. You're leaning over mere inches away.

"Are you awake?" you whisper, your right hand straying to her shoulder or something to confirm she's really there, steadying yourself tentatively.

"I'm awake," she rasps huskily, and the stillness of the dark is alive and breathless. You trail your fingers up her neck – in a trance, almost, and rather clumsily because you can't see – and she is stiff, like she's waiting. When your fingers find her jaw, your other hand presses down upon her other shoulder, for support, and you lean down further to find her lips. She lifts her head by a fraction of an inch to meet you, and your hot mouths press together.

Maybe you kiss her because you're curious, intrigued, or maybe you do it because she rescued you and understood you, or maybe you do it because being in the dark in a strange place makes you a stranger with actions like a dream. You'd always thought you were attracted to black eyes and a sharp chin; well, you _have_ found it, and she's still dangerous like you've been craving all day ever since you realized you _like_ the thrill of your heart thudding recklessly.

Your heart certainly _is_ thudding and it's like intricate music, the way you get swept up in this kiss that begins to feel like a cavalry charge when Ali puts her hands up on your waist and pulls you closer. Your limbs are haphazardly pressed together and you've never pushed so close upon _anyone_, not even your father, so you rake your hand through Ali's hair and she parts her lips to you. You wonder what she must be thinking, but it's not a riddle because you saw the way her eyes glittered at you with guarded awe all evening, respect and fascination. Eyes like lamps, she'd probably never spent so much time around another female; you must be a marvel to her like a woman is to a man. Or a girl to a boy. But she wanted this, she wants this, you know it. This puzzle of a girl who could think about women and kiss a woman.

But that second part is you. She kisses _back_.

The thoughts of Ali being a little boy melt away as your smooth brown bodies slide together, coarse and silky fabrics and sweat between you. You're on top of her now, fingers splayed on her taut abdomen, and the feel of it sparks in your mind. Perhaps it _is_ the androgyny that draws you in, the peculiarity of the girl that is her hard, wiry body, her keen, boyish looks, her incomprehensibly roguish attitude. Never have you met anyone like this, and your intrigue all evening talking to her has come to a needle point; now you're filled with a raw curiosity to inhale her sawdust sweat, to feel her body, like it's made of something else besides yours. Wood, maybe, or sandstone. Her neck is taut as she kisses you, and you feel her tongue working delicious rhythm. Your palm snakes down her angular hipbone, and the warmth of her skin is like blood in your veins.

Even though you actually don't know how things work when one thing leads to another, when two people embrace in the night like this (it's not right, not proper, for you to know such things), you had had some instinct that Ali would flip you over, one bladelike hand on the small of your back, and she would be the one astride you. Dominating you. But position means nothing. You move together, in a blur of breath and skin and the rumpling of clothes, and it doesn't matter. Her hand is still on the small of your back, the touch of her fingers and palm scalding like fire, and you feel like equals.

Then, as you shift and grind, Ali lets out a hoarse breath like steam and her other hand roams your body. It ghosts up your front, against your stomach (breaking out in delightful goosebumps) and skimming your chest, and you gasp in spite of yourself. The black wave of her hair is in her eye (though you can hardly see, maybe you're just imagining it instead of concretely seeing it) and her hand disappears, then resurfaces and it's wandering low in the intimate place where you're crushed together, and a shudder runs through you at the unfamiliar contact like fire. Again. Her touch is scorching everywhere, it seems, on your skin, but this is different. You've never felt _anything_ like this, soaring and sliding kind of with the rhythm of her nimble (pickpocket) fingers, in a place you've never dreamed to feel this way. You begin to wonder how she knows what to do, how she could conceive of this all on her own (_come in, sit, goodness you're fading before my eyes, here, take this bread, you must be exhausted, come lie here_), but the thought bleeds away from your head like smoke.

Because her touch, her motion, is like the rushing and sifting dunes of sand in the desert; but it's nowhere near as wide and sweeping as that, you're crushed together like suffocation and moving so very closely. The friction is everywhere, red and hot breathless and wet with sweat and… and elsewhere where all your heat is centering and focusing. No, you've never felt anything like this. You've never done anything like this. The unfamiliar settings are probably to blame, and you know that, but right now you're not thinking. You're trying not to, at least, but it's not hard. You overthink and overanalyze, as a princess, but all coherency is swept away in the crude motion. Kissing, and touching, and… and more than that.

"Mhmm," Ali hums, arching her neck as you trail your tongue down it. The muscle strains, the skin is slick and salty from sweat and you've never tasted anything like it. Nothing so… so _indefinable_ as another person's flesh has ever touched your mouth. You decide that you like it. You like the sweat and you like the dark and you like the friction and you _really_ like the fire you feel, you shudder and twist like a contortionist into Ali's touch and oh it's such a turmoil like you've never known.

You bow down closer to Ali's body like you did when you first kiss her, your front pressing hers and your face in the crook of her neck, as her strong lever of an arm pistons fluidly. It's building, the fire, and spilling, and the darkness is muffled with the blueness of the stars, and your mouth on her skin bites as you spill over. And shudder. And gasp like surprise or pain.

* * *

You feel the sun painting your skin in wispy red tips before you fully awaken. It's fuzzy, and your mouth feels like dry linen, as you slowly come to your senses. Blinking back the sun's rays, you push yourself up and look around. When you sway back and forth, slightly, you realize you're in a broad canvas hammock, and then you realize you're tangled with someone else's body.

Ali. Last night.

She lies on her back, her face turned away from you and her arm draped carelessly over her eyes; her breathing is coarse but steady, the sound of a deep sleep. You unravel yourself and carefully get to your feet.

You slowly pace the cramped expanse of the tent-like nest, trying to get the feeling back in your stiff limbs. Rolling your sore arm socket, you wander over to the overlook and gaze down at the city below.

Vendors set up their shops, rolling out rugs and setting out their wares. A fruit cart rolls by, followed by a man with several goats. The city is waking up, just like you, and you rub your neck sleepily as you watch it all unfurl.

The amber turrets of the palace gleam like brass in the morning sun, and the many workers are already busy. Not only that, but you can see that the soldiers are exiting the main gates and dispersing in the streets. They group in threes, going down separate roads, and you know what they're doing. They're combing the city. Searching. Stung, perhaps a bit paranoid, you move back from the open air, out of view. You look around the small space, the few meager possessions littering the ground. It's only a matter of time before the guards find you, you know that. You're not stupid. And when they do, what will they do with Ali? If you're to be punished, what will become of her? Since you're royal blood, and not a drop is to be harmed, will she be your whipping boy? Won't she be just as guilty? Won't she, actually, bare the full brunt of the blame for your disappearance? Nevermind the fact that you crept out on your own, that this commoner had nothing to do with that, but if she's found harboring you she'll be penalized. It's illogical, but it's how justice works here.

You turn your head towards Ali, stretched out on the hammock and still fast asleep. For a moment, you wonder what it would be like to travel with her, to learn how to steal, to come back to a different rooftop every couple of nights and watch the stars, peeling apples together and confiding. You could disappear, you could start over nameless and faceless. You could have her hands like torches upon your skin every night. You could both quit musing about romance and… and learn to live it. Together.

But that dream only seems so real because you're standing mere feet away from her, watching her tousled black hair flutter across her eye from the air moving in and out of her mouth. And why not? Why shouldn't it seem real?

You smile, and decide against going forward to put your hand on her face. Instead, you level a fond, perhaps slightly wistful gaze upon her as you take your cloak from the corner and draw it close around you. Maybe you can apprehend the guards in a more deserted alley and come quietly with them without causing a scene.

Silently, like a thief (you learned quickly), you steal away without looking back. The new sunlight is warm as molten bronze painting the right side of your body.


End file.
